For a long time, I was trying to figure out what it meant to be “spiritual.” I was raised Roman Catholic. My paternal grandfather recited Psalm 91 quite frequently, recorded himself reading the Bible on cassettes, and copied the Bible in his many notebooks by hand. My grandmother prayed the rosary and gifted me with one—silver beads shaped like rose petals, passed down through generations of our family. My parents had us bless our food, pray to a picture of Mother Mary, and attend church to celebrate with the community. I found those aspects of their spirituality to be beautiful. So, I thought to myself, where do I learn about spirituality if not from my family?
However, I never agreed with some of the Roman Catholic teachings. What do I do when some in the Roman Catholic community believe in wives being subordinate to husbands and in some cases, even if that husband was beating the wife? What do I do with the strong disapproval of the LGBTQ+ community with which so many of our beloved family members identify? What do I do when some say God is judgmental and lawful, so much so that hell is a place undocumented immigrants would go when they died? I heard this time and time again throughout my years growing up in the community. I just didn’t understand why my childhood community believed in these teachings, why they never questioned priests, and why they connected what I believe are unethical, human-made laws with God.
In addition to finding the social justice component of the Institute for Spirituality and Social Justice Program quite promising, I believe this disconnect with Roman Catholicism is partly why I enrolled in a theology program in the first place. I was set on trying to help change the Roman Catholic system when it comes to some of its homophobic, racist, and sexist teachings.
I’ve had some of the most enriching and revelatory moments being in the program. I’ve learned so much wisdom from many different religions and have been exposed to various theological perspectives. I’ve also learned what questions to ask when it comes to Filipina American Theology. I was born in the Philippines and moved to the US when I was seven years old. I didn’t know how to relate to Filipina Theology at first, having lived in the US for most of my life. I also couldn’t find books on Filipina American Theology. So, I began to ask my own questions which helped me understand my place as a US immigrant as well as how I could connect with my Filipino and indigenous roots.
First, I learned about my spiritual, indigenous ancestors, whose practices were practically wiped out in the 16th century when Spain colonized the Philippines and forced the native people into Catholicism. Then I had to come to terms with the colonized (my indigenous, Itneg Tribal roots in the Philippines) and colonizer (my Spanish ancestors) in me so that I could define a healthy spirituality for myself. As such, I wanted to better understand my intersectionalities and feel more confident as part indigenous and part Filipina living in the US.
I think what helped me make connections between my indigenous roots, Filipino culture, and American upbringing was when I received a sacred batok—a spiritual, ancestral, hand-tapped tattoo—from Lane Wilcken, one of five mambabatoks in the world. Spaniards called the natives, “Las Islas de los Pintados,” which means, “The Islands of the Painted People.” I had no idea my ancestors were once covered in spiritual tattoos, each mark symbolizing a lesson or piece of wisdom or deep story passed down through generations. My Catholic family had always looked down upon my tattoos, saying that God would not like us marking the skin he created. Yet when I learned about my precolonial heritage, I began to show my family that our own ancestors once had tattoos, believed in shamanism, lived in egalitarian societies, and revered women and transgender people. Nowadays, whenever I look at my batok, I feel a deep connection to my roots even though I’m thousands of miles away from my homeland.
It might seem as though drawing from many inspirations and spiritualities would make me more confused about my own, but instead, I’ve had more clarity than ever before. I learned ethical, moral, and inclusive practices within both (colonized and colonizer) and rejected what I thought was hate-mongering or unethical.
I have also realized, after closer reflection, that my parents and grandparents had been doing the same in their own ways for many years. They’ve been rejecting and accepting what they feel is right for them. For example, when I was young, my grandfather used to put his hand right above my belly and chant prayers whenever I had a stomach ache. I learned recently that he observed this practice from shamanic healers in the family (which defies his Roman Catholic beliefs). I also remembered my parents having an elderly woman come over to rub warm coconut oil on my back and (again) chant prayers whenever I felt sick. My mom told me she was considered a witch who also practiced Catholicism. I had no idea that this is defined as “Folk Catholicism,” which I find fascinating. I finally found some common ground with my family members and their Catholicism/spirituality.
I now know that my “spiritual journey” is my own and that it’s okay if something in a religion I was raised in doesn’t feel right. I can take bits and pieces and define spirituality for myself. I am free to figure things out on my own or learn from different religions without feeling I’ve rejected my family in some form. I felt hard-pressed for a long time about my spirituality and pressured to follow other people, especially my own family. Nowadays, I am better able to make sense of spirituality for myself, and I feel it is both liberating and healing.
Image: Author receives prayer before receiving batok from mambabatok Lane Wilcken.